The Five-Minute Marriage (11 page)

She held out her hand frankly.

He seemed surprised by her calm demeanor, but impressed.

“
I thank you, madam. And I, too, wish you every good fortune; I hope that on your return you discover your mother in better health. I—
”
He stopped again, glanced at the pianoforte as if seeking words, and said,
“
I shall always remember you. Adieu!
”

He took her hand, carried it to his lips, and then, saluting Miss Baggott, turned and left the room.

A few moments later Mr. Fitzjohn came to wish them good night.

“
How is Lord Bollington?
”
Philadelphia inquired.

“
He is very weak, ma
’
am, and low; shortly after signing his will he underwent a Spasm, and then slipped into a kind of swoon; he still lies in that condition, and Dr. Bowles has bled him; the doctor remains with him at present, and I purpose sitting up all night in his antechamber.
”

“
Ah well,
”
said Philadelphia,
“
in that case, as we are very weary, I think that we had best retire. I wish you as good a night as possible, sir.
”
She added with some irony,
“
I am glad that, at all events, the object of the performance has been achieved. Mr. Penistone must have gone off with feelings of considerable satisfaction.
”

“
I believe so, ma
’
am,
”
said Mr. Fitzjohn stiffly, and left them.

“
Now tell me,
”
cried Jenny, wild with curiosity, when they had regained their chamber,
“
what was all
that
about? Where is Mr. Penistone gone? There is something havey-cavey here, or my name is not Jenny Baggott!
”

But the two little maids, Meg and Jill, were there, with cans of hot water and warming pans, waiting to assist the grand London ladies undo their laces and curl their hair. A second bed had been introduced into the room and made up with sheets and pillows.

“
I will explain all in the carriage, Jenny, on the way back to London,
”
Delphie promised, slipping gratefully into the hot hollow left by the warming pan.
“
For indeed I am tired to death now, and can hardly keep my eyes open.
”

“
Ay, to be sure, you do look pale and fagged,
”
Jenny acknowledged.
“
Your eyes are as big as filberts and you
’
ve got no more color to you than a clout. Very well—but tomorrow I shall expect a round tale, mind!
”

“
A round tale you shall have!
”
Delphie drew the ancient and frail, but lavender-scented, sheet up to her chin and shut her eyes. The little maids extinguished all but one of the dimly burning lamps, and tiptoed away.

For a moment, Delphie thought that she would
not
sleep; the day had been so full of extraordinary and unlooked-for occurrences that her thoughts were in a race, faces and voices jumbled together: Jenny falling in the moat; Jenny
’
s voice saying,
“
They was both of them drunk, a-dueling on the roof about a dairymaid called Prissy Privett
”
; Mr. Penistone
’
s voice saying,
“
She is hard and calculating to the tips of her nails
”
; Mr. Fitzjohn saying,
“
There is no time to be lost—my uncle
’
s state is critical.
”

Had she allowed herself to be pressed into a piece of disastrous folly? Would she have cause to regret this day for the rest of her life? Or would it all be forgotten—a strange, dreamlike episode, with no bearing on anything that followed after, save that her mother had now been secured of a competence to support her in comfort during her old age? Very likely I am refining upon it too much, thought Delphie and moved into a more comfortable position on the soft feather-mattress.

A gust of rain slapped against the casement—for the night had set in wet and stormy—and she thought, Mr. Penistone will have a disagreeable ride back to London in this. For a moment his face swam in front of her closed eyes, with its mocking, satiric look; odd to remember that he had kissed her. Twice, she thought floatingly, my hand too
...

Then she was asleep.

Breakfast next morning was served with much formality in the chilly dining room. There
was
a breakfast parlor, Fidd explained apologetically, but the furniture was all sheeted up and not in good nick; if Mrs. Penistone had no objection, since the household was all at odds
...

Delphie had not the least objection in the world. Her only wish was to be gone, and she ate her bread-and-butter and drank her coffee at speed, hurrying the dilatory Jenny, who was not at her best of a morning, and yawned like a kitten all through the short meal. While Jenny was finishing, Delphie seized the opportunity to walk around the room, inspecting the family portraits by the light of the stormy, shining May morning.

She was amused to discover her own indubitable likeness in half a dozen of the faces along the wall; it was no wonder that both Fitzjohn and Penistone had been prepared to fob her off on Lord Bollington, even if they did not believe in her tale. Perhaps—she suddenly thought—they believed her to be some other bastard descendant of her grandfather; considering his other propensities this idea must be considered quite a likely contingency. The thought made her very uncomfortable.

Over the mantel was the picture of a curly-headed girl in a short dress and kerchief, who stood with ankles crossed, leaning against a tree. She was laughing. Beside her on the ground were two pails and a dairymaid
’
s wooden yoke.

“
That
’
s Prissy Privett,
”
said Jenny, noticing the direction of Philadelphia
’
s gaze.
“
Wearing her dairymaid
’
s dress, do you see? Meg told me it was painted by Mr. Romney; he did it for the lord as was your grandpa
—not
the one she married in the end. She
’
s an impudent, forward-looking hussy, ain
’
t she?
”

“
There is certainly something very arresting about her face!
”
Delphie remarked, standing in front of the portrait and looking up at it.
“
Taking, too! She looks so merry. She is pretty—not beautiful.
”

“
Ay,
”
Jenny agreed, nodding, and she said after a moment, through a mouthful of bread-and-butter,
“
It
’
s queer, there
’
s naught special about her face—yet you
’
d know her if you met her in China!
”

It was a pert, pointed, laughing face, with rounded, blooming cheeks and bold brown eyes; the hair was drawn up into a pile of nut-brown curls under a tiny muslin cap with a cherry ribbon.

“
She do look like one to get what she wanted,
”
Jenny observed.

“
But she didn
’
t,
”
said Delphie.

“
Sure, she did! She married a lord.
”

“
But then he was so unkind to her that she died—and her children were bastards. Poor girl—I truly pity her.
”

At this moment Fidd returned to the room, and glanced up at the portrait somewhat disapprovingly.

“
How does my uncle do this morning, Fidd?
”
Delphie asked him.

“
He is still very poorly, ma
’
am. Dr. Bowles is still with him, and so is Mr. Fitzjohn. He sends his respects and asks you to excuse him for not coming down to say good-by.
”

“
Pray take mine back,
”
said Delphie.

“
I am come to tell you, ma
’
am, that your carnage is waiting beyond the bridge, and I have instructed Cowley to have your bags carried down.
”

“
Thank you, Fidd,
”
Delphie said, wondering how much it would be proper to lay out in vails to the various servants.

Anxieties on this score held her silent and preoccupied throughout the departure from Chase, and she was relieved when Fidd, bowing, said in what seemed quite a friendly manner,

“
Good-by, ma
’
am. I hope we see you again in happier circumstances,
”
and shut the carriage door on them.

“
Well now!
”
cried Jenny, as the carriage rolled away from the bridge.
“
A round tale you promised me, and a round tale I am determined to have. Why would you not speak last night? Why did your bridegroom set off directly after the wedding and ride away through as wet a night as ever drowned ducks? Why would your uncle not speak to you? Why did you never mention him before? What about your Mamma? Why—?
”

“
Stop, stop!
”
cried Delphie, laughing—her spirits had risen mercurially as soon as they had left the gloomy silence of Chase Place behind them.

Already the whole of yesterday seemed like a page from another life.

“
One question at a time, please! And, first and foremost, I must bind you to strict and absolute silence about the circumstances of last night, Jenny—please not to mention a word of
anything
that happened, not to a single soul—not even to your sister. Will you promise me that?
”

“
In course—if I must!
”
cried Jenny, round-eyed.
“
But why ever not, i
’
mercy
’
s name?
”

“
Because, firstly, that was no real wedding, Jenny—it was all a piece of playacting!
”

“
Playacting
?
”
exclaimed Jenny, thunderstruck.
“
How can that be? It
seemed
real enough—the ring was real, the parson was real—
”

“
No, he was not, Jenny—he was just some acquaintance of Mr. Fitzjohn
’
s, dressed up in parson
’
s clothes.
”

“
What a take-in! Are you truly sure that it was all make
-
believe?
”
Jenny still seemed full of doubts.

“
Sure as sure, Jenny.
”

“
I don
’
t believe it!
”
Jenny declared.
“
For, if it wasn
’
t real, what
’
s this I brought away in my pocket?
”

And she pulled out a piece of paper which, unfolded, purported to be a special marriage license (and looked remarkably like one) recording the nuptials of Gareth Lancelot Penistone, bachelor, and
Philadelphia
Elaine Carteret, spinster, as celebrated by Wm. Blackstone, Suffragan Bishop of Bengal and Southern India.

“
I thought as how it should stay in
your
keeping, so I just pocketed it when no one was looking,
”
Jenny explained with quiet satisfaction.

5

Mr. Browty
’
s carriage made such excellent time up to London that Delphie concluded the coachman was eager to return to the peace and quiet in Russell Square attendant upon his master
’
s absence in Paris. They were back in Greek Street by midafternoon; Delphie thanked the driver, and found herself ascending the familiar stairs with a most curious sensation of depression and flatness.

She had been received at Chase Place with no particular civility, and with a contemptuous disbelief in her story such as must affront every sensitive feeling; she had taken her great-uncle in immediate dislike, and the most she could wish for him was a true repentance of his various misdoings, and a reasonably peaceful conclusion to his sufferings; she had been dismayed by the scandalous nature of such portions of her family history as had been unfolded to her; she had been obliged to take part in a masquerade which offended her principles, infringed upon her dignify, and left her in a most invidious position; she had taken no particular liking to either of her two cousins; yet, despite all these evils, she felt that she had come back from the expedition with some positive gains—although she could not precisely define to herself the nature of these benefits.

She had bidden Jenny a swift good-by in the shop, thanked her warmly for her company, and again anxiously enjoined upon her the most absolute discretion (a quality in which she had cause to fear that Jenny was not too well endowed) regarding the events of the last twenty-four hours.

In her mother
’
s apartment Delphie was relieved to discover a scene of the most orderly placidity. Mrs. Andrews was knitting in front of the hearth, where a small fire burned, and some delicate invalid mess was cooking in a pan on the hob; while Mrs. Carteret, exquisitely neat and tidy (wearing a new frilled peignoir made from the dove-gray jaconet, and a tatted cap of net over her gold-gray curls) reposed on the bed, and read Volume Two of a novel entitled
The Orphan of the Wilderness
, which Delphie had procured for her before setting off to Kent.

“
There you are, dearest,
”
said Mrs. Carteret tranquilly, as if Delphie had just stepped outside the door for a minute.
“
You cannot imagine what an affecting work this is! I quite long to know what will occur in Volume Three, and how it will all end! I have been reading this last three hours, I do believe. Mrs. Andrews said I might as well defer sending out the invitations for the ball until tomorrow, so that I may finish the book first. The poor Orphan! Her plight reminds me so much of your own, my darling.
”

Delphie gave her mother a kiss, and quite agreed that the invitations for the ball need not be sent out immediately. (Indeed she trusted that they need never be sent at all.) She was delighted to find her mother so wrapped up in the fictional adventures of the Orphan that there seemed no necessity to give a verbal account of her own activities; for it would have taxed her forthright and candid nature very considerably to give any version of the last day
’
s doings which did not contain at least enough untruth to prevent her mother from suffering a Spasm, knowing the elder lady
’
s dislike of anything connected with Chase. Complete silence would be much easier. Delphie therefore cordially thanked Mrs. Andrews for the evident care which she had taken of her patient, and was on the point of paying her and saying good night, when Mrs. Andrews remarked,

“
There
’
s a note for you on the mantel, Missie; a manservant brought it yesterday, two hours or so after you had left.
”

“
I wish it will be an inquiry about lessons,
”
Delphie said, breaking the seal.
“
So many of my pupils are gone out of town for the Easter Holidays that I find myself with too much time on my hands.
”

The note, inscribed in a small, ladylike hand on paper topped by a coronet, was not a request for lessons, but a polite and peremptory invitation from a Lady Dalrymple that Miss Carter (misspelled) should entertain the guests at an evening party Lady Dalrymple proposed holding on the following day; she was not aware if Miss Carter was in the habit of performing in this manner, but Lady Dalrymple
’
s friend Mr. Browty had spoken so highly of Miss Carter
’
s talents that Lady Dalrymple felt sure it would be well within her power and that she could not fail to please. A fee of five guineas for the evening was suggested, as well as refreshments, and she signed herself, Yrs, Letitia Dalrymple.

The date of the party was that very evening, Delphie realized with some alarm. She had better go: receiving no word to the contrary, Lady Dalrymple would no doubt be expecting her. She was not in the least accustomed to giving such performances, and felt decidedly nervous at the prospect; but the fee offered was more than she would normally charge for half a dozen lessons—not counting the refreshments! It would be folly to refuse, Delphie thought, for she and her mother were still drastically short of money. There had, after all, been no actual financial benefit from the visit to Chase—nor could any be expected until after Lord Bollington
’
s death and the execution of his will—occurrences of which the imminence could only remain conjectural. At all events, they had not taken place yet.

Moreover, Delphie
’
s performance at this party might lead to other such engagements—or, preferably, to the acquisition of new pupils.

Glancing at the clock on her mother
’
s mantel, Delphie saw that there was little time to be lost if she were to be ready at the appointed hour.

She said,

“
Should you have any objection, Mamma, if I were to go out again for—for an engagement? That is if you, Mrs. Andrews, would be able to remain with my mother during the evening?
”

“
Lord, bless you, yes, dearie,
”
replied Mrs. Andrews comfortably.
“
That will give me nice time to finish this piece of tatting, and Mrs. C. can get on with her book, can
’
t you, ma
’
am? We
’
ll be as snug as sevenpence, don
’
t you worrit your head about us, missie.
”

Mrs. Carteret was likewise acquiescent, only murmuring that the lessons given by Delphie seemed to fall later and later in the day, did children nowadays never stop learning, poor little things? Delphie did not enlighten her mother, for she was not at all certain that Mrs. Carteret would approve of her daughter singing at an evening party, for pay. Singing as an accomplishment was of course very suitable for young ladies, and even the giving of singing lessons was sufficiently genteel—but a paid performance came dangerously close to acting, or performances in opera, which were of course not at all respectable; not for one moment to be considered by any properly brought up young person.

Delphie therefore retired to the other room to change into her white dress (which she imagined would be suitable enough for such an occasion, but which she knew would immediately arouse comment and inquiry if Mrs. Carteret observed that she had it on). Then she muffled herself from chin to toe in a very old brown velvet cloak, before going in to take her leave.

“
You haven
’
t had a bite to eat, Miss Delphie,
”
scolded old Mrs. Andrews.
“
You didn
’
t ought to go out giving lessons on an empty stummick.
”

Delphie was too nervous to eat.

“
I—I had a nuncheon during the afternoon. I will have something to eat when I come back,
”
she promised, picked up her music, and ran out swiftly.

She had over half an hour
’
s walk, for Lady Dalrymple lived in Portman Square, and she felt both tired and hungry by the time she arrived, just at the appointed hour. A few carriages were already beginning to roll up to the door. A suspicious footman inquired Delphie
’
s business, having observed that she arrived on foot. She was swiftly dispatched up a flight of back stairs. On the floor above she was received by another servant, who curtly and summarily indicated the
corner
of a large saloon which was furnished with a pianoforte and a potted palm. There Delphie established herself, reflecting, not without humor and a certain self
-
mockery how different had been the treatment at Chase—which earlier she had felt inclined to criticize as lacking civility. She had been shown nowhere to leave her cloak or do her hair; perforce, she bundled the cloak underneath the instrument, and smoothed her banded hair with her fingers, hoping that she would not be the object of any particular notice.

The promised refreshment did not appear.

Presently guests began to trickle through the main door in twos and threes. This, it seemed, was the newest fashion in evening parties: a beaufet laid out in one room, instead of a regular dinner. Mrs. Carteret had read aloud a paragraph about such parties from the
Ladies
’
Magazine.
“
So much more sensible and economical, dearest!
”
had been her comment.
“
I think we should most certainly confine ourselves to that form of entertainment in future!
”
—a proposal with which Delphie most cordially agreed, though her smile as she did so was somewhat sad, since the Carterets neither gave nor attended parties of any kind at all.

Ladies in silk dresses with demi-trains, gentlemen in elegant evening black, or in knee breeches and striped silk stockings, if they proposed going on to Almacks, strolled about the room; the air filled with talk and laughter. Delphie was much exercised in her mind as to whether or not she should begin to sing; or should she wait for some instruction from her employer? But presently Lady Dalrymple, a fat little woman in tight pink silk and feathers, whom she remembered to have seen several times at Mr. Browty
’
s house, came hasting over to exclaim,

“
Sing, pray sing, Miss Carter, why do you not sing? Hawkins, bring up some more ices directly,
”
and she hurried away again, as fast as she had come.

Thus adjured, Delphie assembled her courage by playing a vigorous prelude on the pianoforte (which proved to be villainously out of tune) and then bravely accompanied herself in one of her own favorite songs, an Irish ballad. A very few heads turned at the sound of the music when it began, but by the time she had reached the end, it seemed to Delphie that her performance had passed virtually unnoticed; she might as well have been a bullfrog croaking, or a hen cackling. Nobody clapped when she finished the song, so, after a few minutes, she sang another, which was received as indifferently as the first. There was no consecutive audience; guests kept arriving, and others leaving; footmen carried around small trays of refreshments (none of which were offered to Delphie); guests kept pressing into the second room, where the beaufet stood. Thus the evening wore on, and presently Delphie began to feel very tired indeed. She had slept badly and risen early, anxious not to keep Mr. Browty
’
s coachman waiting; the journey home from Kent, punctuated by Jenny
’
s amazed questions and comments, had been more of a penance than a pleasure.

But if she ceased her performance for even a few moments to rest, a message was sure to arrive from Lady Dalrymple, inquiring why she did not sing? Pray continue at once, Miss Carter. After a while, Delphie had reached the end of her repertoire; she merely began again at the beginning, feeling sure that none of the guests would notice or care; in which assumption she appeared to be correct. Somewhat despondingly, she wondered how long Lady Dalrymple
’
s evening parties usually lasted; and did her best to divert herself by recalling that yesterday, at roughly this hour, she had been going through the marriage ceremony and having the ring placed on her finger by Gareth Penistone. How the people in this room would stare if they knew such a story about her! It occurred to her that the ring (rather a pretty old one, with the word
Forever
and the initials C.P. engraved inside it) was still on her finger. She had intended to return it to Mr. Penistone after the ceremony, but the swiftness of his departure had taken her by surprise and it had slipped her mind. She must remember to remove it from her finger before returning home, for Mrs. Carteret would be certain to notice it soon; it was a wonder she had not already done so.

Suddenly Delphie saw Gareth Penistone.

He was over on the far side of the room, talking somewhat urgently to an elderly, prosperous-looking man, who was shaking his head in a very decided manner. Gareth had not seen Delphie. That was some relief. She did her best to shrink down behind the music stand of her instrument, hoping that he would not look in her direction, and that if he did so, he would not recognize her among the crowd. To meet again so soon—in such contrasting circumstances—would, she thought, occasion almost unbearable embarrassment to them both—and to herself, especially, mortification, at being discovered so employed! It must be avoided if possible.

To her dismay, Mr. Penistone seemed to be moving slowly, almost involuntarily, in her direction, as the groups in the room swayed and shifted and broke and reformed. There was no doubt, Delphie thought, stealing a look at him past the music stand, that he was handsome, in his saturnine, hatchet-faced way, that evening clothes set off his well-shaped muscular figure—but he certainly did not look as if he were enjoying himself; having parted from the prosperous man he now wore an expression of harsh impatience, hardly suitable for a party. Now he was talking to Lady Dalrymple—or rather, she was talking, and he was listening; his nostril and lip slightly but unmistakably curled in scorn. Now he was moving farther away; suddenly animated, he was talking to an exceedingly pretty young lady, whose dark hair and diaphanous gauze robe were ornamented with large, almost ostentatious diamonds; thank goodness he is gone, thought Delphie, her fingers running over the keys in a minuet which she knew so well that she could play it without the least need for mental effort.

(She had stopped singing some ten minutes before, her throat being so tired and dry that the last ballad had come out in a kind of croak; nobody appeared to have noticed that either.)

Then she heard a silver-haired lady inquire of Lady Dalrymple, who chanced to be standing quite close to the pianoforte,